


Turnabout

by kilroy



Category: Birds of Prey (Comic), Secret Six
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilroy/pseuds/kilroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catman and Huntress tangle with each other... over dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wilding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilding/gifts).



> Thanks as always to the indefatigable Lucy Gillam for idea generation and editing.
> 
> This story takes place between Birds of Prey #108 and Secret Six #1.

From the darkness, Thomas Blake watched the Huntress work.

She moved fluidly, rapidly-- her grace totally at odds with the meaty crunches and the cries of pain as she laid into her targets. Blake wondered whether she was always this angry, if these thugs had done something particularly awful, or if it really just wasn’t their night. Perversely, he hoped it was the latter. He let himself chuckle just loud enough to see if she would hear him.

She did. She snapped one glance in his direction--just long enough to make out the edge of his cape dangling over the roof--and went back to business. Seconds later, the last gangbanger went down with a particularly undignified flourish. As he slipped into unconsciousness, Huntress looked once again towards Blake’s corner of the alley.

“You could have helped,” she declared.

“You didn’t need it.” He slipped gently off the roof into the alley, his cape fluttering on the way down. When he landed on all fours her frown wavered for an instant before she recovered it.

Her boots crunched on the debris of the alley as she walked towards him. “Nice guys don’t stalk women in dark alleys, Blake.”

“I never said I was a nice guy,” he replied.

“Then why are you here?” she asked flatly. “Is this part of some plan with the Six? Because I can have backup here in two minutes.”

Catman shook his head. “There wasn’t a plan, and my teammates don’t know I’m here. They probably think I’m brooding in a zoo or something.”

No smile, but he thought he caught a hint of something in her eyes. “So you decided to just... drop in,” she continued.

“I’m really not much of a forward thinker.”

“Apparently.”

She waited for a quip which never came; he just stood there, confident and relaxed almost to the point of smugness. Eventually she grunted. “Okay. So what now?”

“What did you have planned for the evening?”

She gestured back at the thugs. “More of the same. There are a lot more scumbags loose tonight in Metropolis.”

Blake walked over to one of the thugs and nudged him with his foot, eliciting a surprisingly high-pitched whine. He turned his head back to the Huntress. “Does that include me?”

“It very easily could.”

He nodded amiably. “Then you’d better keep an eye on me.”

She reddened. “If you think I’m going to waste my time babysitting your sorry...”

He held up his hands. “Please, no babysitting. I’m not a teenager anymore; that really doesn’t appeal to me.”

The sound of traffic in the street beyond was only slightly louder than the sound of her teeth grinding. “Then what _exactly_ do you suggest?” she growled.

“I’ll join you on patrol,” he said, finally catching her completely flatfooted. Her expression was priceless, but he kept his voice calm as he continued, “I like to pull my own weight. You call the shots and you pick the targets. I just want to come along for the ride.”

Blake couldn’t read her reaction to the idea, but after a poignant pause she asked “Why?”

He shrugged. “I like the company.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She shook her head slowly. “You are unbelievable.”

“That’s not a no,” he observed.

In response, she pulled her grapple from her belt and fired it upwards. “Have it your way, Blake. Come on.”

He watched Huntress while she worked, trying to gauge her personality by the way she fought. She was fierce and unrelenting, which he already knew; but she took a sort of savage satisfaction in fighting which he hadn’t seen in Russia. It wasn’t joy per sé, more like winning was proof of something important to her. The targets were mostly penny-ante thieves and small-time gangsters, but she took the job seriously.

For his part, Catman kept his claws sheathed and tried to restrain his attacks at least as much as she did. She didn’t make conversation and he felt no need to press her; but he could sense her watching him, trying to figure out his presence here. He smiled at the thought, knowing his expression would aggravate the hell out of her.

In the early hours of the next day, the two vigilantes found themselves on a roof in New Troy not far from the Daily Planet building. Blake dropped himself onto the edge and spread backwards on his elbows, Huntress sat on a vent outflow a few feet back, and the two of them watched the city for a time.

“I wonder what Superman would think,” Catman pondered.

Huntress arched an eyebrow. “About what? You going on patrol with me?”

“Yeah.”

“He’d probably be very confused,” she said drily. “I know I am. Still... thanks for the help.”

“You didn’t need it,” he repeated.

“No, I didn’t,” she agreed. “But that’s not the point.”

He craned his head backwards to look at her. “Don’t read too much into it, Huntress. You know what they say about assumptions.”

“All I have are assumptions where you’re concerned,” she replied. “I don’t really have any idea why you did this.”

“So ask,” he said calmly.

She looked at him searchingly for a moment, then said, “Fine. Why are you here, Blake? The real reason.”

“Because if I had asked you to dinner three hours ago you would have said no.”

Her face was a study in disbelief. “And what exactly makes you think I’d say yes now?”

“Well, let’s find out.” He rolled off the edge smoothly and stood up. “Should we get some food?”

She blinked at him, then shook her head. “I need to sleep sometime.”

“Tomorrow then. You pick the place. But no Italian this time,” he added.

“If I say no, you’re just going to find me tomorrow night anyway, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “Pretty much, yes. But I’ll be very polite about it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just dinner,” she said dubiously. “No traps, no costumes, no teammates.”

“Just dinner,” he confirmed.

“You do realize that if this goes badly there will be a lot of convenient cutlery and I will happily mail pieces of you back to the Six, right?”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he said. “Are you?”

She watched him for three long seconds, then said, “Pompeii, the Greek place on 115th and Silver. Seven o’clock.”

“Works for me.” Satisfied, he turned away and started for the far edge of the roof. By the time he looked back she was already moving in the other direction. He called out cheerfully, “Until then, Huntress!”

“Don’t be late!” she yelled back as she swung off into the night.

“Oh, I won’t be,” he grinned to himself as he started to make his way back to his hotel.

* * *

“You look... I can’t even think of an appropriate compliment.”

Huntress smiled coolly as she let him pull her chair out and sat down. “That was a much better line than the thing about the waltzes.”

Blake pushed her in and sat down himself. “I’m a classy guy. Ask anyone.”

Even without the costumes, everyone in the restaurant was watching them. He figured it was probably the way they carried themselves more than anything, but it had been long enough since he was a playboy that he couldn’t be completely sure. Huntress was certainly doing a good job of pretending not to notice. He hid behind a menu.

A quiet sniffing sound from his end of the table made her lower her own menu to shoot him a questioning glance. "What?”

“You’re wearing perfume.”

“Yes. And?”

“I’m a little disappointed.”

This time she hid behind the menu.

The waiter took their order after the Huntress interrogated him about the wine list. He had to admit-- she had good taste. After the steward returned with her selection, she looked back at him and made a little gesture at the bottle. “So. Who’s paying this evening?”

“I was hoping you would.”

She smirked. “And here I thought you were classy.”

“Only when it’s free,” he replied.

Her eyes rolled. “Shouldn’t you have piles of cash lying around after all the jobs you’ve pulled?”

He smirked. “You’d really think so.”

“What did you spend it all on, a new Catmobile?”

“Please no,” he groaned. “If I ever get another cat-themed vehicle you have my permission to shoot me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “But seriously-- where did the money go?”

He shrugged philosophically. “Money only comes from successfully completing jobs for paying clients.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been doing charity work for widows and orphans.”

“Sometimes,” he said seriously. “Other times we just don’t finish the job.”

“Doesn’t that violate some sort of contract?”

“The nice thing about being mercenaries is that we can choose not to keep our contracts.”

“Or get paid, apparently.”

“There are some drawbacks,” he admitted.

She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “Do you even like being a mercenary?”

“I don’t have any problems with what we do.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

The arrival of the soup narrowly saved Blake from her reply. They ate in silence for a few minutes, until he asked, “So what should I call you tonight? The only name I know you by might raise some eyebrows, and I somehow doubt you’d let me call you Meatball in public.”

She snorted. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“You realize you’re running a serious risk of me calling you ‘Vengeful Flower of the Night’ or ‘Violet Temptress,’ right?”

He tried his best “picture of innocence” expression as she glared at him, to questionable effect. “Just call me Huntress,” she finally conceded in a low growl. “But do it quietly.”

“Sure.”

“And please tell me that wasn’t your idea of small talk,” she added.

“Sorry. We can always stare at each other intensely if you prefer.”

She stared at him intensely.

“Or not,” he backpedaled. Then he shook his head. “Congratulations, you win that round.”

“What does that mean?”

“Most conversations I have end when someone finally admits to being uncomfortable,” he explained. “Hazard of working with the Six.”

“Is it usually you that gets uncomfortable?”

“Frequently. You’ve met Ragdoll.”

“Point taken.”

He expected her smirk, but there was also a trace of regret on her face that surprised him-- something tired around the eyes. “Your team doesn’t do banter?” he asked.

“Less than you’d think,” she sighed. “There hasn’t been a lot of joking at work lately.”

“I’m sorry.”

She rubbed her temple. “I know you probably mean that, but it doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

“I did mean it, but I’m not offended.” He played with a piece of bread. “Why be on a team if they don’t make jokes?”

“Because we watch each other’s backs?” she suggested.

“That would be nice,” he responded. “I have to settle for the jokes.”

She frowned. “Your team doesn’t back each other up?”

“No. That would require a little pack cohesion.”

The entrees arrived with fanfare which Blake did his best to ignore. The food was excellent, but he found it difficult to concentrate with her watching him so intently.

He put down his fork and offered, “Say what’s on your mind, Huntress.”

She paused for a few moments before asking, “Why do you stay with the Six?”

He was unsurprised. “Do you want a joke or the truth?”

“Let’s try the truth.”

“All right.” He stared off into the distance. “I don’t really know. Inertia, partly. And they’re my friends.”

“You don’t stay for the money or the work?”

“No.”

“Then why not do something else?”

There was a little heat in her voice, but he met her gaze coolly. “When you started off as the Huntress, if Batman had asked you to be the next Robin, would you have said yes?”

“No,” she replied with venom. “Never.”

“Why not?”

“Because Batman is a dictator who thinks he knows best for everyone. He would never stop telling me what to do.”

“Sounds like you’d want to strangle him with his own cape.”

“You have no idea.”

He spread his hands. “When my boss does that, I get to.”

Huntress watched him for a long time. Eventually she shook her head. “You are a piece of work, Blake.”

When the dessert tray came, she ordered something he’d never heard of. They sat back as the busboy cleared the dishes from the table, and after they were alone again he said, “Your turn now, Huntress. Tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter. What was the last really good movie you saw?”

“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” she responded promptly.

“You like westerns?”

“Only Italian ones.”

He nodded. “Favorite ice cream?”

“Anything with caramel.”

“Why a crossbow?”

Her expression froze. “Joke or truth?”

“I’d be curious to hear the joke, but let’s go with truth.”

“It’s a hunter’s weapon,” she answered.

“So’s a rifle.”

She shook her head. “Guns spook the prey. Too loud.”

Blake nodded appreciatively. “You really are a huntress,” he mused. “I’m not sure if I should be turned on or offended.”

She let that one go without comment. “I never hunt cats, if that’s what you’re wondering. I prefer my big game to have two legs and a rap sheet.”

“I could tell.” He stroked his chin absently, feeling for stubble that wasn’t there. “So why hunting? Is it the thrill of it? That flush of triumph when you finally down your target?”

“No,” she said with surprising conviction. “It’s not a game. It’s never a game.”

“No. It isn’t.”

He held her gaze. After a moment, her face softened infinitesimally. “I expected a joke,” she said.

“There are some things that I’m serious about.”

“What else besides hunting?”

“Innocence,” he replied.

The answer hung in the air for a long time. “Why?”

“Because once you lose it you can never get it back.”

She fingered the cross on her necklace. “No. You can’t.”

* * *

A cool evening breeze met them when they left the restaurant, prompting Blake to search the heavens for signs of rain. Huntress watched him for a moment, then said, “This was nothing like I expected.”

He looked back at her. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I really don’t know,” she answered. “Do you?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I’m going to go with ‘good thing.’”

She smiled. “Really? Why?”

“Because you were worth hunting.”

His voice was utterly serious, his eyes still and calm. She tried to read him for any signs of sarcasm or insincerity, but there were none.

“I’m not prey,” she said firmly.

“I wouldn’t want you to be,” he replied.

“Then what do you want, Thomas?”

He answered in a perfect deadpan, “I’m really not much of a forward thinker.”

This time she did laugh. “Do you think maybe we’ve done enough thinking for one evening?”

“Definitely,” he agreed. “But that does mean we’ll have to find something else to do.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not going to make any suggestions?”

“Ladies’ choice.”

She looked up at him, testing the distance between them. Then she said seriously, “Come on then. I’m sure I can think of something.”

Catman smiled.


End file.
